#He made a lot of money too probably more than any of his twelve PhDs got him excluding the 100k grant

[tinfoil-jones]

Jerk Ford AU: Tumblr Thirst

Jerk Ford: ...

Jerk Ford: That's the worst you've got? I've heard worse from drunk housewives when I worked at Space Hooters. Stan: *off screen* You what?

Jerk Ford: It was the dodge the draft, Stanley.

Stan: ?!?

[Art by @tearosepedall]

I know most of these comments are not thirsty, it's people just liking Jerk Ford. But I thought this would be funny.

Because of his friendship exposure to Anti-Ford, Jerk Ford is pretty up to date with a lot of modern internet slang and pop culture.

As for: can you ship whatever with Jerk Ford? I mean, I'm not a cop... but you have to remember this man is awful, and any romantic/sexual relationship he gets into is always going to be for nefarious purposes on his end. He is a homewrecker on principle who catfished an actual God because he thought it would be funny.

If anyone wants to like include Jerk Ford into their fanfic, art, AU, whatever, you could just shoot me a message and ask.

People, please, you can do better than this guy. Way better.

[nerdy-as-heck]

Bitterly By Your Side

A/N: Me? Posting a fic for the first time in 8 months? I'm just as surprised as you are. Ao3 Link

Summary: Logan is a world-renowned author, but not for his scientific journals. For a romance novel he never intended to publish, and an upcoming movie that would finally get the two it was inspired by together.

Ships: Pre-Prinxiety, background Logicality

Warnings: None

There were a lot of things in this world that didn’t make much sense to Logan. What made someone hate a specific group of people for an unchangeable part of their identity? Why would some people continue to believe a falsehood even after being shown irrefutable evidence? Why the fuck is college so expensive? But this. This went beyond every question that Logan could ask himself. Any amount of logic he tried to apply would shatter into a thousand pieces.

For years, Logan had been a distinguished author. Dozens of academic papers, journals, books, and articles were published under his name, making more breakthroughs in science than one could have ever imagined possible. Some were small advancements, granted, but none were insignificant. But that’s not why the general public knows Logan’s name.

Ten years getting a PhD in Astrophysics and one Nobel prize later, Logan Berry’s name is on the Best-Selling Romance Novel section in every bookstore across the country. And Logan will continue to blame his husband for it every time someone asks.

Not that it was really /entirely/ Patton’s fault. Both of them had been sick of Roman and Virgil’s pining that had been going on since freshman year of college. At least Logan’s infatuation had only lasted a month or so before bluntly asking Patton if he finds him physically attractive; that story always gets a laugh every time they tell it. The four of them had been suitemates during their first year, with Logan and Roman sharing their room while Patton and Virgil had the adjoining one. That was nearly twelve years ago, and yet the two of them still seemed to be clueless as to the other’s emotions, even with all four of them once again living in the same apartment.

All Patton had said was he wished there was a way to see them get together, like a movie or something. Now, Logan couldn't direct or act, but he could write. So, naturally, he did the only thing a sane person would do; he stayed up for three days straight writing a 300 page chaotic mess of the two falling in love. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic, and it definitely ended up being far longer than he had intended. But Logan’s train of thought never seemed to stay quite on track when it came to making his soulmate happy.

Of course, Logan had no interest in simply reading it over and over again himself; he printed out the pages and presented it to Patton as an early birthday present. Logan was under the impression that Patton knew it was a simple gift for his eyes only, nothing more. But Patton hadn’t quite gotten that impression.

Logan hadn’t necessarily made it a ‘fanfiction’. Yes, it was about two hopelessly oblivious in love college roommates that got together in the end. The thing that kept it unique was neither character revealing their actual name until the very ending, instead choosing to use a nom de plume. In this particular case, Roman had called himself “Merlin” and Virgil went by “Storm”. Neither the reader nor the characters within the story would learn their true names until the last chapter.

Apparently Patton did not read to the last chapter. Instead, about halfway through, he had believed it was a good idea to take it straight to a publisher; he couldn’t believe Logan had trusted him with the draft of his first novel!

It wasn’t until Logan got a copy of the book in the mail, fully printed and with his name on the cover, did he realize why Patton hadn’t commented on it after finishing. “Bitterly By Your Side” was already in every store in town and quickly spreading. Logan quickly pulled Patton into their shared room to discuss this with him and show the last page; needless to say, Patton was humiliated that he had done such a thing. It took hours to calm him down. Logan simply believed the book would not be popular and it would be taken down from the shelves in a matter of a few weeks.

He could not have been more wrong.

People slowly began to recognize Logan on the streets, asking for photos or to sign their copy of the book. Stores would reach out to him and schedule book signings, which Logan reluctantly went to as a chance to promote some of his other works. No one was buying any of that.

This was about two years ago. Logan had always scolded Roman and Virgil for not reading as often as they should, but it was unexplainable how grateful he was that they never listened. Not once in those years did the two step foot in a bookstore, see Logan scatter away for a photo when he was found in public, or questions the ‘meeting’ Logan seemed to be going to every other week.

By this point, Logan had gotten used to how things were. It was bringing in money to support the entire group, and no one was hurting for it. Though it still confused him why this was the case, he had accepted it as an unexplainable cosmic phenomenon. Logan didn’t even think twice when allowing a company that approached him to make a movie adaptation, with the promise that Logan could supervise on site, of course.

Months later, and somehow the two’s obliviousness had only gotten worse. It was a true miracle that they never noticed Logan being gone all the time or that Roman didn't pick up on the potential movie acting gig. Though the last wasn’t much of a coincidence; Logan always checked their mail and tossed out any advertisements for it.

Logan had only looked over one important detail; the company picking up the story was Disney. And regardless if they had heard about it before, Virgil and Roman both had a dedication to watching it together day it shows up on Netflix. Patton would always tease Virgil about it being their little “date night”, which would be received by a shove and Virgil’s hood coming up to hide his face.

On the night that this happened, Logan was out late at a midnight book signing, and Patton had agreed to go with to drive him home in case Logan was too exhausted. So for the first time in quite a while, Roman and Virgil had the whole apartment to themselves for movie night. As tradition, Virgil grabbed popcorn, snacks, and drinks, running back to the couch just before Roman clicked play.

“Are you ready for what is sure to be the GREATEST FILM of ALL TIME?”

“You say that every time, Princey. Bitterly By Your Side may be Disney, but its a dumb romance too. It can’t be that good.”

Of course Roman scoffed at that, but before he could continue the argument, Virgil just threw a handful of popcorn at his face and hit play. Storm happened to be the first character that came on screen, and the second Roman saw the actor’s face he gasped and leaned forward.

“That man… Is the love of my life.” Virgil couldn’t help but to laugh at the dramatics of such an early declaration, and for a short time Roman stared at Virgil rather than at the movie.

“You think that guy is good looking? Don’t be ridiculous, he looks like a ten year old that got into his mom’s makeup.” Roman could only glare at Virgil for a few minutes before Merlin came on screen. And then it was Roman’s turn to laugh as Virgil’s jaw literally dropped.

“You can’t be serious! Storm is far more attractive than /that/ over dramatic piece of work!” Virgil didn’t even have the words to argue at the moment, simply shoving a hand over Roman’s mouth as Merlin already had a shirtless scene. It wasn’t more than five seconds later, though, that Virgil realized what he had done and practically shrieked, crawling to the other side of the couch. “S-Sorry… But if that doesn’t prove Merlin is the best, then nothing will.” A simple joke had now turned into a full out war between the two, pointing out each small quality in the other character that made them far superior.

“Look at Storm’s purple eyes! And that long hair, I just want to run my hand through it and kiss that man.”

“They’re probably contacts anyway! Merlin has the swoop in his hair that at least doesn’t block his /actual/ green emerald eyes!”

“But that’s the thing, Storm is so shy yet abrasive at the same time! His hiding just makes his natural beauty all the better!”

“Sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you over Merlin’s fifth shirtless scene.”

Of course, it was all joking banter. Despite the insults thrown from time to time, this was a typical thing for the two of them, and tonight wasn’t any different. It only finally died down at a point where the movie was getting ready to end. For some reason, Roman was a moron. Well. Virgil knew that already. A cute moron, but still a moron, one that had decided to run to the bathroom right after the climax of the movie and refused to let Virgil pause it. In the short time, Roman was gone, that was all the movie needed to make Virgil’s fight or flight response kick in.

“Now that we’re dating, shouldn’t I at least get to know your name, angel?”

“...Its Virgil.”

“Roman. A pleasure to finally meet the real you.”

That was. A weird coincidence. But with anxiety, nothing ever felt like things could be so coincidental. So once Roman came back, Virgil was on his phone, googling the book, and every word he read just made his face burn even more.

  Bitterly By Your Side is a romance novel by Logan Berry, published in 2017. In recent interviews, he has confessed to it being inspired by real life events and people he knows, though for now he wishes the details to remain private.

...Oh Logan is so dead when he gets back.

“H e y!” Virgil was next to be assaulted with popcorn as he pulled his hood up to avoid Roman seeing his face right now. “Get off your phone and watch the eye candy! Storm is back on screen!”

...Storm. The character inspired by Virgil. That Roman had been calling hot all night long. And Virgil had done the same to Merlin. Virgil didn’t focus much on the rest of the movie, far too busy trying to hide his ever reddening face and cursing the entire world. Once the movie finally ended, Roman stood up to give the TV a round of applause. But before the credits, there was one more thing…

  And now, an interview with the author of the original book: Logan Berry!

Roman was understandably shocked and sat back down, confused as to when Logan had written a book without telling them. With every word spoken on the show, Virgil’s heart sunk deeper and he made another promise to kill Logan tomorrow.

  Yes, it is true that this novel was inspired on true events. I have two friends that have been obliviously in love with each other for nearly twelve years now, despite mine and my husband’s encouragement for them to confess. Storm and Mer- Well, I suppose I can use their real names now, it's no spoiler since this is shown after the movie. I don't blame either Virgil or Roman for their hopeless pining, it's just something my husband tired of and wished to see come to life in case it never did in person.

After that sentence, Roman was quick to turn off the TV. At least now it made sense why Virgil had curled up into a ball on the couch during the interview. Silence. Silence that lasted far too long for either of them to stand, yet neither had the will to break it.

Surprisingly, Virgil was the one to swallow his pride first. “...so. Eye candy, huh?”

Not even a second later, Virgil felt a pillow hit his head. “Oh shut up! You’re one to talk! Drooling in every shirtless scene in the whole movie!”

There wasn’t a coherent comeback in Virgil’s mind, so instead he just flipped Roman off from his hoodie protection. Roman, being the prick he was, couldn’t let it go so easily though, grabbing Virgil’s hand and ignoring his own pounding heart as he pulled the two closer together. Safe to say, Virgil felt like he was going to explode. “You know the real thing is always better than fiction.”

And then for some unknown reason, one that he would claim to this day as temporary insanity, Virgil’s mind had decided it was time for him to be the moron today. The only thing he could think to do was kiss Roman, so he did. Both were surprised and afraid, but neither pulled away. Not in the first few minutes, not even in the first hour. It was a scene that easily could have rivaled the masterpiece of a movie in itself. By the end of it, they were both out of breath and exhausted, choosing to simply sleep together on the couch.

“...goodnight, Storm…” “Night, Merlin.”

Still. They were going to kill Logan in the morning. But for now, it was just them, and that was enough.

[giantchasm]

8 for the thing!

fic author questions!

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

It’s beyond me why but this is still one of the funniest things I’ve ever written imo.

“Heather! Haul your ass out of bed! This is important!” Her nudges are growing a tad more impatient. McNamara rolls over with a groan.

“‘m comfy!” She whines. She clutches the throw pillow tighter

“Heather’s gonna be pisssseedddd when she finds you in her bed.”

“Don’tcare.” McNamara sleepily pouts.

“Okay. If you want to deal with a hungover, whiny, and angry Heather so badly!” Duke chides. “I guess I’ll just have to pull my… Super secret prank alone.”

McNamara perks a little. Got her: Hook, line, and sinker. She sits up, rubbing her eyes with one hand. “What on earth are you g’nna do, Heather?”

Duke smirks and reaches into her pocket. She flashes a polaroid camera. She was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Picking it up at the mall had been an impulse decision. And seeing her Jeep wrecked when she came out had only sealed the deal. She had been walked on too many times. It was her turn to throw a punch.

McNamara squints in the dark. “‘nd that is? You know I can’t see well, Heather.”

“A camera.” Duke explains, proudly holding up her new savior. “We – Are going to take pictures of Heather.”

“Like… Nudes?” McNamara responds in utter disbelief. She puts its name to the test, and gently chucks the throw pillow at Duke. “That’s a stup’d plan.”

“No! Not nudes! Christ, Heather! Why would I want to see Heather naked!?”

MORE SHIT TO SHARE UNDER THE CUT

If we’re going for smth a bit more serious Duke’s lashing out against Chandler is real good.

Heather’s eyes are practically rolling out of her skull. “Will y’ get out of my house already? Party’s over.”

Duke shrugs. “Trust me; I’m in a rush to.” She carefully steps off the couch and stretches. “You haven’t exactly been fun company. Yesterday was a dick move, you know that? And so was Tuesday, and-”

“Do you have a whole laundry list? Is this all you think about? Christ, Heather! It was a prank. We all know you have money flowing out the ass, anyways.” She dramatically tosses her hands in the air, and leans on the wall for support. “You’ve been such a whiny bitch lately. I’m gonna tell you th’ same thing I told Heather yesterday when she was throwing a fit! That whole sob story she’s probably already told you all about ‘cuz she doesn’t know how to shut her oversized mouth. I’m not special. ‘m not different. I don’t want her pity, and I certainly don’t want your condescending bullshit. You’re not better than me. You can’t just--”

“And you’re not better than me!” Duke suddenly snaps. ��“Your pranks have never been funny! Especially considering they were always targeting me. Your witty comments about Heather and your opinions on my latest ‘phase’ aren’t new or original. They’re hurtful. And you just don’t give a shit. I think you’re a sad, sad, person, who doesn’t care about anyone. And in that regard, maybe I think Veronica did the right thing.”

Heather feels her heart stop in her chest. In between the headache and the smell of booze and her overwhelming urge to vomit, she certainly doesn’t need a lecture from Heather fucking Duke right now. “Are you saying you want me dead!?”

“Of course I’m not saying I want you dead! We’re not all batshit psychopaths like Veronica, or like yourself, for that matter! But someone had to take you down a peg! And! She! Did!”

“She did not! She was a violent, half-braindead tryhard, and she’s old news! So stop bringing her up! Even if she HADN’T pulled that stunt, she would have been long gone after the incident at the party! And so will you soon enough if you don’t-”

“If I don’t what? Stop growing a spine? Stop acting like I deserve anything? I’m not afraid to get booted from your little ‘team’ anymore! And neither is Heather! Because you’re really not as scary as you think you are! You’re a pathetic, sadistic, fucking vulture who got exactly what was coming to you. And now you’re practically ready to just lay down, drunk, in a puddle of your own piss and vomit. You aren’t my boss! You aren’t my rolemodel! You aren’t even my fucking friend!”

Heather feels lightheaded. This is new. She can’t think of any comeback. She shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. All she can do is hiss through grit teeth.

“Get out of my house.”

“Gladly.” Duke scowls, and with a slam of the door, she’s gone.

and because i feel bad not including any scenes from kfawl, have the fun little crush scene!

“...She really is mysterious, huh?” He commented.

Momo gave a nod. “In a cool way.”

“Yeah… Cool and mysterious.” Hibiya couldn’t find himself disagreeing. Though, perhaps he wouldn’t have genuinely agreed with his next statement. “Cute, too.”

Momo squeaked. It sounded as if she was choking on her own breath. “Cute!? W...Well… I guess you’re not wrong!” Hibiya noted the faint color overtake her freckled face again.

“...Cute enough for someone to have a crush on, maybe?” Yet again, not his own feelings, merely based on a sneaking suspicion.

Momo let out another squeak-cough sound. The red spreading across her cheeks was becoming something far from subtle.

Hibiya smirked. Perhaps he really was no better than Momo when it came to lack of tact over these sorts of things. How could he resist, though? Revenge was a dish best served cold. And a severely underrated pick on the menu of life, too! At least he’d had enough decency to not say these sorts of things in front of Kido.

“I knew it!” He declared in satisfaction, leaning closer to the older girl. “You like her!” He said it with the tone of an excited, gossipy grade schooler. Which, perhaps, was only to be expected, as that’s what he was.

Momo buried her face in her arms, letting out a frustrated groan. “Am I really that readable!?” She made another moaning sound. “I mean, she’s cute and all! B...But she’d never like someone like me back.”

Hibiya suddenly felt a pang of sympathy. Oddly enough, he knew how that felt. He gave her a halfhearted pat on the back, an attempt at reassurance of some sort. “No way, Oba-san. You’re not readable. I just have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff.. Okay?” And that was no exaggeration. He was only twelve, and he was already quite certain he could pursue a PHD in the daunting field of ‘crushes’.

“And I’m not gonna tell anyone. It can just be our little secret, okay?” He paused, thoughtful. “As long as you shut up about Hiyori, I mean.”

Momo finally looked up, giving a shrug. Her face was still beet-red. “Seems fair. I… I was planning to do that, anyways.”

“In that case, good luck, Momo.” He drifted off. “With all the crush stuff, I mean.”

Momo’s eyes seemed to widen a little at the use of her name. Hibiya felt instant regret at using it. She’d never let him live it down, would she? She’d pinch his cheeks and loudly shout to the world that her little friend had finally called her something other than ‘old lady’ or ‘older lady’. The idea made his stomach churn in embarrassment.

She did not pinch his cheeks, or even bring it up. Instead she gave him an honest smile.

“Good luck to you, too, Hibiya. With everything.”

Perhaps an immovable object had finally made its peace with an unstoppable force.

[radioactivedelorean]

Dēbĭlĭto #2

<<First | Next>>

Brain Trauma AU Masterpost

AO3

Dēbĭlĭto - meaning to paralyse, to weaken, to disable, to incapacitate, to impair, to maim, to lame, to cripple

Chapter 2: Pins and Needles

The first few days of the brothers’ journey went rather smoothly. The weather stayed consistently pleasant and the sea stayed flat and calm, making sailing easy. As promised, they had called Dipper and Mabel in the evening of the second day at sea. The kids had grinned happily, asking them lots of questions about what they had found, what they had seen and where they were going next. Ford had explained that they hadn’t seen all that much yet since they were still rather close to the coast and a lot of the more elusive creatures wouldn’t come that close to the mainland. Dipper’s questions seemed to focus more on what they were looking for, Ford’s research and the route they had planned. Mabel’s questions were much more orientated around whether or not they had ‘found any ladies’ yet, like Stan had been proclaiming. Ford had chuckled and said that no, they hadn’t and that his brother was still very much a single man.

The pair were currently sitting at the table in the cabin, eating a plate of tomato pasta with a side of canned mushy peas. There wasn’t much else they could eat until they caught some fish, but neither of them minded all that much. After having gone thirty years eating whatever he could find, Ford found the simple meal almost a banquet, something Stan had found rather amusing.

“You seriously went a whole month eating nothing but dried biscuits and raw fish?!” He baulked as his twin explained one of the more difficult times during his thirty-year absence.

“Well, I had fresh water and the occasional piece of fruit, too, but yes, that was essentially my diet.” Ford nodded, talking casually as if telling Stan what the weather had been like as he ate his dinner. “It was enough to keep me on my feet, though eating raw fish that hadn’t been properly prepared is something I wouldn’t like to do again. It’s put me off eating sushi for life, I reckon.”

Stan chuckled. “Well, at least we’ll be able to cook whatever fish we catch while we’re out here.”

“I sincerely hope so. There are terrible risks associated with eating raw fish.” Ford said.

“Yeah, the last thing either of us wants is to get sick out here.” Stan raised his eyebrows as he sunk his teeth into another forkful of pasta. A stray drop of tomato ragu clung to his chin.

Smirking, Ford passed him a napkin. “Still missing your mouth when you eat, I see,” he chuckled. “It’s a wonder why you’re so big when more of it ends up down your front rather than in your mouth.”

“Shut up Ford,” Stan grumbled, wiping his mouth before chucking the napkin back at his brother. “What did I tell you about the fat jokes?”

“I’m just saying.” Ford shrugged with a smirk. “I only tease you because I care about you, you dork.”

Stan scoffed. “Don’t call me a dork, you nerd.”

Ford poked his tongue out at his brother. “You’re a dork, Stanley. Don’t bother denying it.”

Stan just rolled his eyes as he finished off his meal. “So what if I’m a dork? It’s better than being a nerd who constantly talks to himself when he’s working. Heck, you do it in the shower too, and in your sleep.”

Ford grumbled under his breath, blushing a little bit. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. I have to make sure we’re on course and that any creatures we may encounter are either harmless or ones we know how to deal with.”

“I have to make sure we’re on course and that the big mean sea monsters won’t hurt us.” Stan retorted in a high-pitched, teasing voice, making a talking motion with his hand. “I’m Ford and I’m a massive nerd, blah blah blah nerd words blah blah blah science I’m so smart because I have twelve PhDs blah blah blah!”

Ford narrowed his eyes and shot his brother a glare from across the table. “You just watch it otherwise you’re going overboard and you can swim after the boat. Maybe then you’ll lose some weight.”

“Oh, that is it, Mister!” Stan shot up from the table and stormed over to his brother.

Ford’s eyes went wide and he scooted back on the seat away from his twin. “Hey, Stan you know I’m just joking!”

Stan grabbed his brother’s leg, pulling him forward before lifting him up and wrapping his arms around him tightly. He pressed his hands against Ford’s sides, causing Ford to wriggle and fight his grip a little. Stan grinned mischievously before he started to tickle his brother.

Ford burst out into laughter, thrashing in Stan’s tight grip. “STA-HA-HAANLEEEYYY!” Ford practically screamed. “L-LEH-HET ME GO!”

Stan grinned even more, continuing his relentless assault. “Nope! I warned you about making all those fat jokes but you didn’t stop, so this is what you get!”

“STAN!” Ford wriggled in his brother’s arms, his chest aching from laughter. “G-GE-HET OFF ME!”

“I’m sorry, Sixer, what was that?!” Stan laughed, tickling his brother even more as Ford continued to writhe around in his arms. “Could you maybe repeat that?”

“PUT ME D-DOWN!” Ford spluttered and wheezed, torn between getting his breath back, struggling to get free from Stanley’s tickling and laughing so much.

“Try asking again nicely!” Stan chuckled, although he did let up a little bit to allow his brother to breathe.

“P-please let me go!” Ford spluttered.

“That’s better.” Stan let go of Ford and took a step back, crossing his arms and grinning at his brother. “See? Being polite is the way to go.”

“Y-you’re the biggest...fucking...hypocrite I’ve ever m-met…” Ford panted, his hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, taking a seat at the table again.

Stan chuckled, sitting opposite him once more. “You’re still just as ticklish as ever, Poindexter.”

“Yes, I know, Stan, you don’t have to prove it all the time.” Ford muttered. “I can’t exactly help being sensitive.”

“Aww, is my poor big bro sensitive?” Stan teased, pouting overly dramatically.

“I am when you’ve got your arms around me and you’re tickling me relentlessly!” Ford protested, blushing a little bit.

Stan sniggered at the expression on Ford’s face. “You know I only do it because it’s amusing.”

“It may be perfectly amusing to you but I find it quite irritating.” Ford grumbled, though he couldn’t hide the way the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk. While he hated the feeling of being tickled, it did make both of them happy. It always lightened Stan’s mood to see his twin giggle and laugh like a child whenever he was tickled.

Stan rolled his eyes. “You’re just glad we’re not fighting any more.”

“...alright, I won’t deny that.” Ford grinned sheepishly. “It’s good to have my brother back.”

“Hey, it’s good to be back, bro.” Stan grinned and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “I can finally tease you again without having to think of who the heck you are or if you’re still mad at me.”

“Is that seriously your top priority?!” Ford raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you have better things to do with your life? I mean, I know you’re technically retired now, but still.”

Stan scoffed. “Oh you’re one to talk. All you ever did before you went missing was dumb school work, dumb college work and then dumb research. You’re the world’s biggest nerd.”

“Well that research was going to earn me a lot of money, until things… went wrong.” Ford pulled a face.

“Hey,” Stan reached across the table to squeeze one of Ford’s hands, offering him a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, because we dealt with him, we’re all safe and unharmed and he can’t get to any of us any more, especially you.”

“I know,” Ford smiled weakly in return. “I know that he’s gone, but thirty-two years of torment don’t get forgotten that easily. Unless of course I had some kind of device that allowed that to happen.”

Stan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Well, unfortunately, Mabel smashed it, so ya can’t just forget that all of that happened to you, as much as it might help.”

“No, it’s okay.” Ford shrugged. “If I forgot everything that had happened to me, I’d probably still be mad at you for the whole college incident. I’d likely end up being a completely different person. I’m willing to live with those memories if it means I can still be myself.”

“Geez, since when did you have a philosophy degree?” Stan teased. “I thought you were more of a scientist.” Ford rolled his eyes with a light chuckle. “I am, I’m just saying that the reason I am who I am now is because of all of that mess with … with him. If he and I had never crossed paths, I would likely have ended up living on my own forever studying all sorts of weird things. I may never have contacted you and it’s likely we may have never made amends.”

“Glad to know ya care about me enough to not wipe your memories,” Stan grinned, earning another light chuckle from his brother. “Now come on, let’s get these dishes done and we can go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“You’ve barely done anything all day!” Ford protested. “You’ve just sat up on the bridge in the sun!”

“Exactly! The heat has made me tired!” Stan shot back with a slight smirk. “It’s getting late anyway and Lord knows you don’t sleep.”

“I do sleep, Stanley!” Ford said. “I just don’t sleep much.”

“Exactly, so you could do with a good night’s rest. Come on, pass me those plates and we can get them cleared away before we’re both going to bed.” Stan shot Ford a pointed look and gestured to the plates.

Ford rolled his eyes, passing his brother the dirty dinnerware before grabbing a tea towel. The pair washed and dried the dishes up before taking it in turns to have a shower. Before long, they were both in bed and were snoring quietly as the gentle rocking of the boat on the water had lulled them to sleep.

___

When Ford woke up the next morning, his first thought was that he wanted to go back to sleep instantly. His second thought was that he needed coffee. Stan, it appeared, was already up, his bed empty. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and made a move to stand up. All of a sudden, his legs seemed to go numb beneath him and he fell back onto the bed with a yelp. He frowned a little, but brushed it off to simply being a little bit of pins and needles from being asleep for ages. He tried again to get up, only for his legs to stay numb. He ended up sitting on the bed, lifting his legs up slowly to try and regain the feeling in them.

Stan appeared in the doorway, a cup of coffee in his hands. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just got pins and needles,” Ford grinned sheepishly. After another moment or so, he was able to stand up again normally, though his legs were still a little bit numb. His head was spinning a little, giving him a vertigo feeling. He went to go and get himself some coffee and brushed the incident to the back of his mind. It didn’t matter any more. It wasn’t immediately affecting his health and it wasn’t causing him any pain, so it should be of no concern to him, right?

Ford essentially forgot about his difficulty getting out of bed until later that day when himself and Stanley were having lunch. Ford had been able to pick up his cutlery, carry his plate and eat rather easily. However, when he’d gone to pick up his glass of water, the glass had slipped through his fingers, tipped over on the table and spilled water all over the table.

“Ford!” Stan chided him gently as he went to get some paper towels. “You’re such a klutz at times, I swear.”

“I’m sorry,” Ford said indignantly. “It slipped through my grip!”

“Well then maybe you should have held it a little more firmly.” Stan shot back as he mopped up the water. There hadn’t been much in the glass and there wasn’t anything on the table that could be damaged by the water, but it was still a little irritating.

Ford huffed and went back to eating, shunting the accident aside to simply being that he hadn’t been focused on what he was doing. The rest of the day went without incident, the pair doing a bit of cataloguing after discovering a new type of extra large seahorse with bioluminescence before having a video chat with the twins. Naturally, as soon as they had mentioned the seahorses, Mabel was immediately fully engaged in the conversation, asking lots of questions with her eyes wide in awe and curiosity.

“What colours were they?! How many did you see?! Were there any baby ones?!”

Ford chuckled. “Blue, purple, pink, yellow and green, we saw about twenty of them and yes, there were a few very small ones.”

Mabel squealed in delight. “You have to send us the photos and the videos you took of them!” She exclaimed.

Stan chuckled. “We will, once we get them off the camera and onto the laptop.”

“It sh-shouldn’t take t-too long,” Ford said. All three of the others gave him a concerned and questioning look. It took Ford a moment to realise that he had stuttered while talking. He blinked and coughed to clear his throat. “It shouldn’t take too long at all to get the photos and videos uploaded,” he repeated. His head was spinning just a little bit, not enough to be an annoyance but enough to notice.

“Are you feeling okay, Sixer?” Stan frowned, putting a hand on his brother’s back.

“I’m fine, Stanley,” Ford assured him with a smile. “Just a little tired, that’s all. Still g-getting used to life at sea.”

Stan chuckled, his concerns fading. “So am I, Poindexter.”

The conversation continued, drifting between topics rather frequently every time one of the kids asked a question about their sailing, or when one of the older Pines twins asked how school was going. None of them really batted an eyelid whenever Ford’s voice shook a little, though something kept nagging at the back of Ford’s mind to talk to Stan about it. He shunted those thoughts away, telling himself that he was overreacting and simply hadn’t gotten used to life on the boat just yet.

Eventually, the kids’ mother came in, telling them that they had to go to bed since they had school in the morning. The kids bid goodnight to their uncles and ended the video chat. Stan put the laptop away, making sure it had been left to charge, before going to tidy things up. Ford went to have a shower. The pair swapped over ten minutes later and Ford took over with the cleaning up while Stan showered. Before long, the pair were back in bed and fast asleep.

___

The next few days seemed to go smoothly. Ford didn’t wake up with any stiff joints or pins and needles and his voice was normal and free of any stuttering. It appeared that the few incidents had simply been one-off occasions. Since all three of them had happened on the same day, Ford shrugged them off, deciding that they were just due to a rough night’s sleep on a boat he wasn’t quite used to living on yet. Stanley never brought any of them up in conversation, so Ford figured Stan had brushed them off as well.

Stan, though he didn’t say anything about it, was a little concerned about Ford after those incidents. His brother seemed completely fine the next day, but still something hung around at the back of his mind, telling him to say something about it to Ford. He ignored the small voice, knowing that if something was wrong, Ford would tell him, right? Sure, the older twin was just as stubborn as the younger one, but if something came up that was a risk to Ford’s health, Ford would tell him about it, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t just leave it until the problem got so bad that he was hospitalised, or worse, right? Stan chuckled to himself. Ford would definitely tell him if something was wrong, and since he hadn’t done so, there was nothing to worry about. He was overthinking. Ford was fine.

Ford himself was beginning to get a little concerned about those incidents, even though no more incidents occurred since that day. The dizziness, numbness and stuttering had come out of nowhere. The cause of the incidents was still bugging him, but he couldn’t work out what might have caused them. Pencilling them down as ‘haven’t gotten used to the boat yet’ was the easiest thing he could think of doing, but it didn’t seem right. It didn’t feel as though that was the reason that he’d been slightly dizzy that day, or that he’d had trouble getting out of bed. But since nothing else had happened since then, it can’t have been anything worth worrying about.

It wasn’t until a week later that anything else abnormal happened. Ford had been sitting down reading a book at the small table in the kitchen area, when Stan had called to him from up on the deck, wanting to check something with him. Ford had set his book down before moving to stand up. At that moment, the boat had swayed rather violently on a particularly strong wave, causing the cabin to rock forwards. All of a sudden, his legs had felt weak beneath him and he’d ended up falling face-first onto the floor. Stan had heard the noise and thought Ford had dropped something. He went down into the cabin to see if he was okay to find Ford sprawled on the floor, looking shocked and confused but thankfully unhurt.

“Oh geez, are you okay?!” Stan quickly helped Ford to his feet.

“I-I’m fine, Stanley,” Ford assured him, holding onto his brother’s shoulder for support. “That wave just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“You sure?” Stan seemed concerned.

Ford offered him a reassuring grin. “Yeah, I’m fine, I promise. Just got knocked back when the boat moved.”

Stan chuckled. “Oh man, I know the feeling. C’mon, I need you to check these coordinates to make sure we’re heading the right way.” He led Ford up the steps and onto the deck, before walking around the boat to the bridge. The display on the panel next to the wheel displayed some coordinates, specifying their location, along with their current bearings and speed, how warm it was, the wind speeds and the humidity. Everything seemed normal.

Ford checked the coordinates on the panel and compared them to the ones he had written down in his notebook. “It seems like we’re on track, although you might want to change the bearing to 337 instead of 330, otherwise we’ll end up too far West.”

“Alright,” Stan nodded. He grabbed hold of the wheel and turned it clockwise until their bearing matched the ones written in Ford’s notebook.

“That’s better, thanks,” Ford shot his brother a grin, which Stan was all too happy to return.

“So how long until we reach the spot we’re heading towards?”

Ford did a rough mental calculation. “I’d say a few days maybe? If we keep going at the speed we’re going at now and provided the weather stays calm, we should reach it by the end of the week.”

“Cool,” Stan hummed, making sure the wheel was fixed in place before heading back into the cabin. Ford stayed up on deck for a little while, sitting down in one of the chairs up there, just relaxing for a bit. He ended up dozing off on the deck, snoring quietly.

Stan came up to get him at around half past five in the evening so he could help him with the dinner. Ford moaned a little bit at having been woken up, but his empty stomach persuaded him to get up and go back down into the cabin to help with the cooking. They ended up having leftover fish stew for dinner since neither of them could be bothered to cook anything from scratch, especially since their ingredients were fairly limited anyway.

Neither of them really talked much during dinner, aside from a few questions about where they were headed and what they could expect to find there, along with how far from the nearest port they were in case they needed any supplies. When they had finished eating, Ford washed up the dishes while Stan went to make sure everything on the deck was secured before turning the boat’s engine off. The younger twin lowered the anchor before heading back inside and shutting the cabin door, locking it firmly.

The air around the boat fell silent. This part of the sea was too far from land for pretty much all sea birds, so the air was free of their calls. The only sounds that were around were the noises of the two men shuffling around in the small cabin, the water lapping against the sides of the boat and the gentle whistle of the wind outside. Ford and Stan each sat and read books for about an hour or so, after which Stan proclaimed that he was too tired to keep awake much longer and retired to bed. Ford stayed up quite a while longer, long after his brother had fallen asleep.

As he was left alone to his thoughts, Ford found that his mind drifted back towards those incidents with the slight problems working his body. He’d had plenty of sleep since the first incidents, yet only earlier today had he fallen over. He’d felt his legs turn numb underneath his weight before he’d toppled over. Sure, there had been a particularly rough wave at the time which had caused the boat to rock, but that had happened before and he’d stayed on his feet just fine. Maybe he had just been caught off guard. Or maybe he hadn’t, and there was something else wrong with his body.

Ford shook his head to clear those thoughts away. That couldn’t be the case, surely? If it was, he would have seen something else by now. Something drastic would have happened to him if something was really wrong with him. He couldn’t afford to think like that, anyway. They’d only been at sea just under two weeks and like Hell either of them were going to call it quits so early on just because one of them wasn’t feeling so great. Ford knew how much Stan loved being out here. It was obvious from the way his eyes lit up as he scanned the ocean, the way a grin spread across his face every time he stood behind the wheel, the way he quietly hummed to himself as he walked about up on the deck. Yeah, Stan loved being out here and there was no way Ford was going to take this away from him. They’d both dreamed of this adventure, after all.

Sighing, Ford set his book down on the table and got up. Once again, his legs flared up with pins and needles before going numb, causing him to have to sit back down again until the feeling returned to his legs. He curled his toes a little and rolled his feet in his ankle joints. Before long, the regular blood flow was established again and he stood up without any problems. This was starting to bug him a little. Then again, he had been sitting rather awkwardly on the seat as he read, so maybe that was the cause of his legs’ sudden numbness. He shook his head again and went to take a shower.

As the heated water flowed over his body, Ford shut his eyes to let himself relax a little. When he opened them again, he saw small coloured spots dancing in the corners of his vision and his head spun as if he’d just been turning around in circles rather quickly. He stumbled a little and stood with his hands pressed against the shower wall, his head lowered. “Urgh…”

The vertigo sensation thankfully passed after a few moments and Ford was able to rinse himself off without another dizzy spell. He turned the shower off and got out, drying himself off slowly and carefully in case he triggered another vertigo attack. It was peculiar that he kept having them, since he had never experienced motion sickness before now and had spent long periods of time in places that had ground a lot less stable than the boat they were on currently. He wasn’t anaemic, as far as he was aware, and he wasn’t sick, so there didn’t seem to be any logical explanation as to why he would get dizzy so frequently.

Ford sighed and changed into some clean pyjamas before making sure everything in the bathroom was cleared up. He folded the towel and set it on the side to dry off overnight before turning the lights off. He crept across the small cabin hallway and gently opened the door to the bedroom. Stan was still fast asleep, snoring quietly. Ford crept in as quietly as he could, shutting the door behind him before climbing into his own bed. He slipped his glasses off and set them down on the small chest of drawers between the two beds. As soon as he laid his head down on the pillow, Ford was fast asleep.

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 30905/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4

Read on: Ao3

They wander out of Mamie’s just as the sun is beginning to set. Golden hour, Emma thinks it is called.

“So, how much have you seen of Misthaven?” Asks Killian.

Emma frowns, thinking of the Misthaven University library and the endless bowls of cappuccinos at Mamies.

“Hah,” Killian laughs, “That’s what I thought. Too much time with our darling friend Blanche Neige, and hardly any time spent exploring the thriving metropolis of Misthaven.”

Emma chuckles. She thinks of the past few hours she’s spent with Killian in Mamie’s. They’d exchanged favorite quotations, scenes, and characters from Blanche Neige. They discussed all of their other favorite reads. It seems that Killian is quite well read, his favorite books spanning from Dickens to Rushdie. She’s discovered that he’s not just ridiculously good looking, he’s also thoughtful and has a soft spot for literature.

“Hey,” Emma protests, “I have a lot riding on Blanche Neige right now.”

“Yeah, right, your whole future, I know,” Killian snorts, “But you can take one night off from books.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. What does he mean one night? They just agreed to be friends, not to-

“Emma, just an hour or two of sights in the city,” He offers, “Just that. I’m not planning on coming home with you after, if that’s what you thought I was on about. I mean, we could arrange that too, if you wish.”

Does this guy ever stop with the flirting?

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but manages to let out a little smile, “Okay, fine, one evening off. And nothing more.”

Killian grins. He’s so open with his emotions. He wears his heart on his sleeve in a way that Emma has never done. She can tell how he genuinely feels about each of her responses, whereas she lives to be an enigma.

“Have you been on a river boat tour?” He asks, “They’re quite popular for tourists, but they really are good fun and a nice, proper tour of Misthaven.”

Emma shakes her head, realizing how little time she’s taken to enjoy Misthaven.

“Let’s do that shall we?” He suggests, “At sunset, the city will be very photogenic.”

She swears that the French bit of his trace-of-a-Misthaven-accent comes out a little more as he talks about sunset. And yeah, it’s kinda doing something to her. Stupid attractive voice.

“Yeah, sure,” She agrees.

They walk along the quay to where the tours leave from. Killian buys two tickets and they step onto the boat.

Emma hasn’t been on a lot of boats in her lifetime. One time a group home went on a boat tour of Boston Harbor. She doesn’t remember much of it, only that her hair was in a braid that day and one of the more annoying boys kept tugging on it as she tried to look out at the city. When she was in high school, on her trip to New York with Ingrid, she remembers taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. She remembers seeing the skyline of New York on the way back, stately and ruthlessly modern against the sky.

Both of those boat rides were rocky, lurching violently as they traveled, but this boat is smooth. She and Killian find spots upstairs, on the outdoor deck. They lean against the rail, watching the Misthaven flag that hangs off the back flap gently against the backdrop of the river and hills.

“So,” Emma says, turning to Killian, “Obviously, you know all about my life as a student and my thesis- but what about you?”

“What about me?” Killian says, crossing his arms over the rail with smirk.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs, “What do you do?”

“It’s going to sound a little dim, after our discussion about literature,” he says, scratching behind his ear nervously.

Why is that so attractive? Calm your loins, Emma Swan, he’s literally scratching his ear.

All the same, she feels weirdly hurt by his admission. She’s never been the kind of person who things herself above others. She’s spent most of her time at Duke feeling less than her peers who lived far more privileged lives than her.

“It’s okay,” Emma says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Remember the bad childhood thing? It’s made me significantly less judgey than most people in academia. I got really lucky and that’s the only reason that I’m working on a PhD and not cleaning toilets.”

Killian nods, his face solemn and a little gentle, “I’m a bartender.”

“Nice,” Emma says, not waiting a beating, not wanting him to feel bad, “Does that mean that as your friend I get free drinks?”

“Hmm,” he says, his easy smile returning, “Not because we are friends, just because you’re hot.”

Emma dramatically huffs, because it’s her instinct to react that way, but there is a small bit of her that relishes that he thinks that she is hot. Okay, maybe more than a small bit.

She has to stop it. She can’t be swooning over this guy, even if he is charming and attractive and loves her favorite author. She doesn’t date at all. It’s self-preservation. And if she is going to survive finding funding and finishing her dissertation- she needs a much self-preservation as possible.

“What about before that?” Emma prods, trying to distract herself from becoming a love-sick puppy.

“I thought we weren’t getting into the dark childhoods today, love,” Killian said, his face becoming solemn again.

“Sorry,” Emma said, pulling an apologetic face, “I was just curious. Mostly about your accent. It’s more English than Misthaven.”

Killian nods, “I moved to the UK when I was twelve.”

That revelation helps her to connect the dots of confusion that have been mingling in her head about Killian’s backstory.

“Oh,” Emma blurts, “Is that why your name is funny? Killian isn’t a very Misthavian name.”

“It’s an Irish name,” Killian explains, “My mum was Irish. But that’s not why I lived in England.”

“Oh,” Emma says, softer. She notices the was, where she thought there would be an is. She realizes they are hedging along the topic of sad childhoods, a conversation that she definitely doesn’t want to unpack. She’s known Killian for two days, she definitely doesn’t want to be recounting the orphan story to him.

“She, uh, died,” Killian says, “Not long after I was born. My brother took care of me. He had an Irish name too- Liam.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me the sad story,” Emma says, noting another past tense where she expects a present one, “I’m sure you want to enjoy this boat ride without dredging up every horrible memory you have.”

He gives her a grateful smile.

It really is beautiful, the boat ride- though his smile is too (not that she’s thinking about it). The city drifts behind them. The opera house is glowing in the evening light. The adorable old town buildings jut out in angles as they creep up the hill, looking like a child’s town toy set. On the other side of the river, she sees the sunset reflected in the windows of more modern office buildings. She can see students lofting on the quadrangles of the campus. Misthaven is beautiful at sunset. Killian was really right about that.

“But, if you were wondering, before that,” Killian says, returning to her question, “I worked at a bookshop in London. I really miss that job.”

Emma looks up at him. The light brings out the flecks of red in his stubble and she marvels in this discovery.

“I think the best jobs are ones where you are surrounded by books all the time,” Emma says, dreamily, stretching.

“It was great,” Killian says, becoming animated once more, his hands suddenly moving as he talks. “I could recommend books, read behind the counter during lulls. There was a coffee shop in it too. I learned to make really nice cappuccinos.”

“The smell of coffee and books?” Emma says, “Sounds like the dream.”

“I really was,” Killian says.

“Why’d you leave?” Emma asks.

Killian shrugs and she assumes it’s part of the long sad story he isn’t ready to tell. Her heart breaks a bit at that. He seems graceful now, happy enough, with a lost look that lurks behind his eyes at moments when he isn’t paying attention. She knows he must have been through some hard things.

“I decided to move back to Misthaven after the Dark Time ended. I missed home. But, I’d love to have a bookshop of my own,” He confesses, “I’ll die happy if I can open my own bookshop.”

Her heart now melts a little bit for him. It’s such a gentle dream to come from man as disarmingly attractive and hopelessly charming.

“That’s what I was going to use the money for,” He tells her, “Why I wanted to go into that deal with the man in the pawn shop.”

“For your bookshop dream?” Emma asks. She had imagined that he’d want the money for personal use, maybe a nice house or an easier life, but not to open a book store.

He nods. She smiles at this idea. She thinks her motivation of wanting a PhD in literature was soft, but Killian’s dream also eeps a sort of gentleness as well.

“We are such nerds,” Emma laughs, “Wanting a large fortune to spend on our bookish dreams.”

Killian gives her a tight smile. In a flash, she feels as if they are kindered souls. They’ve both had really tough lives. They’ve probably spent a lot of time alone, without families, fighting for their own selves because there wasn’t anyone else to. But books are their solace, the bit of hope, the passion that kept them from giving up. She knows in a second that Killian understands her fierce love of literature in a way that her privileged university peers, or even Belle, could never truly understand. Killian knows what it was like to be saved by book. To have books as your only companion.

In this revelation, Emma feels something bubble up inside her that she can’t restrain. A whole glob of feelings for Killian. She doesn’t want them. She isn’t ready for boyfriends or dating or relationships. But yet the feelings explode into her world, unable to be quashed, unable to be brought back in.

So, she does the only thing she’s good at: bottles it up. The feelings go into a bottle, into the wall of bottles.

“Tell me about what the bookshop would be like,” She says, pressing further into the rail of the boat, watching the ripples that the wake makes as it coasts through the water.

“I don’t want anything huge,” he says. “Just a small shop would be lovely. Two floors, I think, with a coffee bar in the back.”

She nods, imagining it already. She pictures it in rich dark wood, like the belly of ship.

“I think I’d like to have reading groups there,” he continues. “Maybe workshops for aspiring writers, or readings from local authors.”

“I’ll be there the second you get Blanche Neige to read,” She says.

“Believe me, if I ever get her, or discover her identity, you’ll be the first to know,” He vows.

“Same,” She agrees, letting herself bump into him (in a purely chummy way).

He looks back at her with an expression of tenderness, of kinship- that she feels herself draw away again. She moves a fraction over, but just enough to feel the space form between them. It’s a game she constantly plays- don’t get too close, don’t let those feelings out.

They are silent for a moment and the boat leaves the river to move into the channel. The skyline of Misthaven turns to silhouette against the dusky rose sky. Emma can trace the top of the opera house, the university library, the cathedral tower. She can see in the distance the taller, modern buildings of the business district. But her eyes linger on the castle, perched on the hill, hovering over the city.

She thinks again of Emma, the other Emma. Princess Emma.

She thinks of the revolution, the story that Professor Hood told her of his time in hiding, his wife’s death.

“Were you here during the Dark Times?” She asks, turning to Killian, trying to fit his story into the history of the country.

His eyes are fixed on the castle as well, “A bit yes.”

He runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. There is pain in eyes as he looks at it.

Emma sees him open his mouth and she stops him, “Hey, we aren’t talking sad stories, remember? You don’t have to tell me about it.”

He shakes his head, shrugs, and reveals, “You should probably know, well, because I think this is how the whole thing the other night came to happen- I used to live in the castle.”

All of a sudden, Emma can picture Killian as a child- almost too well. She imagines him with a mop of dark hair and freckle smattered face. She pictures him dressed in finery, the kind of thing you’d wear at a castle.

“Were you royalty then?” She blinks, the reality of his confession hitting her. He must have been pretty important to live at the castle. She knows he is a bartender now, in the way that the revolution made paupers out of many greats from Misthaven, but she imagines he must have been very distinguished to have lived in the castle. Maybe a duke or lord…

He shakes his head, giving her a half grin, “No, Emma, I wasn’t anything like that. My brother was a guard at the castle and the royal family was kind enough to let me stay with him in the castle. We had a small room in the basement. It wasn’t much, but I took lessons from the royal tutor and we got better food than we would have on our own.”

“Your brother Liam was a guard?” Emma asks, her mind still caught up in his previous statement, tracing the words over and over in her head. They brought back an echo to her, of something. It’s like she’d spoken the words before.

“Yeah,” Killian says, “Why?’

Emma shakes her head, brushing off the sense of déjà vu, “Sorry, it just sounded familiar. Something about that.”

“It’s because he was with the princess when she disappeared,” Killian explains, before swallowing hard, “He fled with her to America, to take her into hiding. But something went wrong, his remains were found in the Hudson River.”

“Oh,” Emma says softly, reaching out to Killian, “I’m really sorry, Killian. Truly.”

“It was years ago,” He says, “I lost him when I six. But you’ve probably read it in an article somewhere. Everything about the lost princess seems to mention Liam in it somewhere.”

“So, you knew her then?” Emma asks, “Princess Emma?”

He smiles at her, “I knew a little girl who’d run down corridors and play silly games with me.”

“You were friends?” Emma asks.

“I suppose,” Killian says, “When you are the only two kids in the castle, you stick together. She was younger than me though, so we weren’t terribly close.”

Emma nods, silently, her eyes still looking up at the castle on the hill. The pieces start to come together for her.

She looks enough like the lost princess. She has the right name, the right accent. Damn, she even has that scar. She’s desperate enough to need the money, still despite everything.

Killian knew the princess. Killian has the connections to really sell their story. The queen might actually listen to him.

Maybe she was wrong before. Maybe this is the fairy godmother opportunity that’s fallen into her lap again. She’d been foolish not to try for it.

“What if we really did this?” Emma asks, turning from the rail to face Killian.

“Sorry?” He says, “Do what?”

“Convince the Queen I’m the princess,” Emma says, “We could do it. Between your history with the crown and my uncannily good looks, we might actually be able to pull this off.”

Killian pushes his lips together, a small frown forming, “We aren’t going back to that man. That awful, impish man. Let’s not return there.”

Emma shakes her head, “We don’t need him. We can do this just the two of us.”

“How would we even begin to do that?” Killian asks.

Emma smirks, as the boat loops around and heads back into the river, their horizon turning to nothing but sea before them.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” She says, letting her smirk turn to a grin, “I’m like really good at research.”

“Ha,” Killian says, following Emma off of the tour boat, twenty minutes later. “You said you said you weren’t going to invite me home after our soirée, yet here we are Swan, heading back to your place.”

“Oh shut up,” Emma says, fake annoyance in her voice, “You told me that you don’t have Wi-Fi at your place, so we are going back to my apartment to research. Research, Killian.”

He chuckles, glad that Emma is sassy enough to match him. He’s only picked up the flirting and innuendos after bartending. He realized that his good looks coupled with a few compliments and an eyebrow wiggle are enough to garner a few extra tips and sometimes drinks from his female (and some male) clientele.

“Ah right, research,” He says, smacking his head, “Thanks for reminding me Professor Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, as she seems to adorably do frequently, and he follows her in the direction of the tram.  It’s just across the river from where the boat docked. They cross a bridge towards it. It’s a cute bridge with ornate iron designs and one covered with love locks.

“I thought this was just a Paris thing,” Emma says, nodding to locks.

Killian shrugs, “No, apparently, they are littered all around Europe on bridges and benches.”

“Seems kinda anticlimactic,” Emma remarked, “Like oh hey, let’s put a love lock on a bridge- but not the bridge, not even in the City of Love, just another random bridge in another random city.”

He laughs at her rant, “Well, Swan, if I had thought about getting you a love lock before, I’m scratching that thought now.”

She hums a bit, surprising him with not rolling her eyes.

They finish crossing the bridge and head to the tram station. Emma swipes her metro card moving through the turnstile to the awaiting train. Killian pushes himself above the barrier.

“I could just swipe you in, you know,” Emma offers.

“Nonsense, Swan,” he says, flashing her a smile. “I’ve yet to get caught. Besides, we are about to convince someone that you are a lost princess as part of a money-making scheme- we’ve got other things to worry about.”

He thinks he sees her shiver and he regrets bringing up the devious nature of their scheming. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty for it or anything akin to that. She was crafty to think they could pull it off on their own. He thinks she’s right, with a little research it’s very possible. They have a right, he thinks, to pursue the possibility of this. There is too much lining up for them not to try.

He takes a seat beside Emma and the train moves. He doesn’t know where Emma lives, but he isn’t surprised when they get off at a stop in one of the young neighborhoods not too far from the university.

“You’ve got a place here?” He asks.

“I’ve swapped with a student who is in the states for the semester,” Emma says, “I was surprised by how nice it is.”

He’s surprised as well when she leads him up the apartment. Once she flicks on the lights, it reveals a bright, white space with a few house plants and vintage posters on the walls. There is a large bookshelf, where Emma’s books have neatly been added beside some that the previous apartment owner left behind. There is a funny contrast between her tome of Infinite Jest and an old biology textbook in Dutch. He admires her full row of Blanche Neige books, each and every one there on her shelf.

“Make yourself at home,” Emma says, “Would you like some tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind a cuppa,” Killian remarks, as he sinks into her sofa.

He watches her fuss over the kettle. A few strands have escaped from her bun, and trickle loosely around her face. She’s hung her red leather jacket by the door, so she wears only her romper now. The thin, dark straps create a contrast against her sharp collarbones. She’s lovely.

He’s thought that for a while now. As they chatted over coffees, as he watched her in the golden sunset, as they chatted on the boat, as they giggled on the bridge- she’s truly lovely. She has hard edges, shaped by a mysterious past, but underneath it all she’s full of passion and creativity and drive.

She returns to him with two mugs of milky black tea.

“Thanks, milady,” He says.

“It’s your royal highness, to you,” She corrects, laughing.

“That’s the spirit,” Killian says, taking a sip of the tea.

“So, where do we start?” Emma asks.

“I think we need to figure out a way for you to befriend the queen,” Killian says, “She’s quite approachable for a queen. I’ve met with her since she’s returned.”

“You have?” Emma asks.

Killian flinches, “At Liam’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma says, putting a gentle hand on Killian’s arm.

“No, it happened a very, very long time ago,” Killian says.

“Well, I think we should start by researching the queen then. If we figure out where she goes in town, where we can find her- maybe then we can negotiate a way to make her acquaintance,” Emma says, her practical academic voice kicking in.

“Right on, Swan,” Killian agrees.

She pulls her laptop out of the bag and flicks it open. He’s surprised at just how fast she types, as she taps in, “queen of misthaven.” She instantly clicks on a wiki article that appears first in the search results.

Killian watches as a familiar picture of Queen Mary Margaret fills the corner of the screen, a description detailed beside it describing her life.

Emma makes a little choking noise as she looks at the screen.

“Swan, are you alright?” He asks, lifting a hand to stroke her back.

She puts the laptop down on the coffee table in front of her. She tucks the wisps that escapes from her bun behind her ear.

“Wait, that’s her?” She manages, “That’s the queen?”

“That would be correct,” Killian replies, “Our royal majesty, your mum, in the flesh.”

Emma purses her lips together, picks at her nail for a moment. He can tell that she’s thrown by the discovery.

He wonders for a moment if she really is the princess. Maybe she is the princess and she’s startled because she remembers. Maybe everything is coming back to her. Well, it would certainly make everything easier if Emma was actually the princess.

But then she says, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I know her.”

“You do?” Killian asks. His heart skips a beat.

Could she really be her? The Princess? He’d believe it.

“I met her at the opera,” She explains.

At the opera? Emma’s never struck him as the opera going type. He’s always written it off as a posh thing that was out of his league. But then again, Emma is a PhD student. She is out of his league. She’s the kind of intellectual type that doesn’t spend time with scum like Killian.

“I got a free ticket from the foreign student association,” Emma says, “It was actually pretty horrendous. But anyway, I ran into this woman in the bathroom and she was trying to convince me to come back to the opera even though this one sucked. She offered me free tickets to a ballet on Friday and I accepted them.”

“And this woman was the queen?” Killian asks.

Emma nods.

“Well, Emma, I think our plan just got a lot easier,” Killian says with a grin.

“I think so,” Emma says, and he can tell reality is hitting her. They really do have a chance at this.

“You said the opera was Friday?” Killian asks.

“I have two tickets,” Emma replies with a nod.

“Hmm, well, Emma Swan, fancy an opera date?” Killian suggests.

“Ugh, with you?” She jests, “I guess.”

“Oh sod off,” he tuts back.

“It’s sod off, your royal highness,” she corrects again.

“I really need to start working on that,” he laughs.

“Yeah, you do,” she says, her voice full of confidence.

His brain starts churning, thinking through the reality of this plan. They’ve nearly accounted for everything- expect for one thing.

“Emma, before we do this,” he says, hesitant, “There is one thing we should do.”

She cocks her head, “What is it?”

“Well, as much as I hate that man, he was right. You do need a scar to match the one the princess has,” He says.

He hates to think of marring her porceline skin with a knife. He hates to think of doing anything that the horrible man wanted them to do. But it would be a shame for the whole plan to fail just because of a small, but crucial detail.

Emma dips her head demurely. “Well, actually, we might not have to.”

She moves to reveal her opposite shoulder. His eyes drift from her lovely sharp collarbones that he noticed earlier, to where a small silver line begins at its base and travels over the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m not sure if it’s the right shoulder,” Emma begins.

“It is,” Killian says.

Her eyes widen.

“I remember the day she got the scar,” He says lightly, “She was on her pony and had a fall, cut her shoulder on a rock.”

“Oh,” Emma says.

He reaches out a hand, letting a finger trail along the slightly puckered skin. Emma shivers and he worries that’s gone too far. Maybe his touch is an unwelcome memory of the hooded man.

“Why? How did you get yours?” He asks her.

Emma shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“Emma,” He says, smiling, “You realize we are hardly going to have to lie to pull this off. You are truly the perfect woman for this opportunity.”

There is a part of him that wants to say something more. He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful, that she’s clever, that’s she’s the perfect woman in general. But he holds it back. They are going to be business partners. She already has enough on her plate between this scheme and her academic work. She doesn’t need his unwanted affections. Maybe another time. Maybe in the future when she’s finished her thesis and he’s financially stable. Or maybe never. She’d likely be better off without him.

“Would you like another tea?” Emma asks, shaking him from his melancholy.

“Oh no, Swan, I should be off,” He says.

He stands to head to the door and she rises beside him.

“Well, I’ll see you Friday, then?” She asks.

“Yes, Friday indeed,” Killian says.

She goes to open the door for him, but then pauses, her hand lingering on the knob.

“I’m really glad we’ve become friends, Killian,” She says.

He lets himself smile a full grin, “I am too, Emma.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who cares about Blanche Neige as much as I do,” She says, a little blush gracing her cheek, “It’s nice to have someone to talk about this stuff with.”

“Likewise, Swan,” He says, “Truly, I’m very fortunate that you’ve come into my life.”

“Thanks for the boat ride,” She adds, “Maybe you could show me more of Misthaven sometime. You know, when we aren’t coming up with money making schemes.”

“I’d like that very much,” He says, “I’ll think up something.”

“Well, till Friday then,” Emma says, opening the door.

“Till Friday, Swan.”

Tagging: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @katie-dub

[paildramonnn]

Daiken Week | Soulmates

No excuse for not posting this on Tuesday, or even just a day late.  So with apologies and no editing whatsoever, here’s day two. 1.5k outsider POV.

Twenty years is not so long to spend without a soulmate.  It’s longer than normal, yes, but that’s just a modern trend.  These things go up and down.  Fifty years ago, most people didn’t pair up until their mid-twenties.  Another fifty years before that, and the only way to escape being paired before twenty was to die or join a holy order.  And before that, parents were pairing their children up before they could walk.  Things just happen to be on the downswing now.  It’s hardly something to get stressed over.

Miyako can hear the numbers all day long, it doesn’t change the knot of worry in her gut.  Because, of course, there are people who never get paired.  Their soulmate dies young, or they’re born a world apart, or -- it’s happened -- they end up with someone else.  It’s rare, sure, but there have been cases.  She could name you five off the top of her head.  And honestly, she’s a big proponent of “it happens when it happens” when it’s other people.  But looking down the barrel of twenty without a flicker of recognition is daunting.  Especially when she’s got the wonder twins to compare herself to.

Hikari and Takeru were a given.  Eight years old, they looked into each other’s eyes and knew, as much as it’s possible for an eight-year-old to know anything with certainty.  Since then it’s been pretty much non-stop handholding and soppy looks.  They’ve set a wedding date and everything, because that’s just who they are.  Why not prove to each other how much they care in front of a crowd of family and friends?

It’s not like Miyako is bitter.  She really isn’t.  She’s happy for them.  She loves both of them dearly and wants the absolute best for them.  She can’t say the same about Daisuke, though, and that’s really stretching her patience over the whole “soulmate” concept.

Daisuke not only managed to meet his soulmate at the ripe old age of fifteen, but he snagged Ichijouji Ken, a drop dead gorgeous world class genius and all around golden child.  Okay, yes, not everything was as it seemed there, and Ken was about a month away from a very early nervous breakdown when Daisuke met him, but the fact remains.  And Ken didn’t exactly burn himself out.  He cut back on his extracurriculars, got into one of the best high schools in the country, and now he’s two years into a PhD program in biological engineering.  He’s also never went through an awkward phase and is somehow even more drop dead gorgeous than before, so Daisuke is hardly doing time.

Not that he can tell.

“A wedding,” he says, just this side of snide, and flips yet another glossy magazine page hard enough for the paper to tear way down near the binding.

Miyako grinds her teeth.  Iori sticks a sticky note in a travel magazine -- Ibiza? Really? -- and makes the sound of Sage Reasonableness that he perfected at thirteen.

“It’s traditional.”

Daisuke snorts.  He’s not Ken, he’ll never pass for genius anything, but he did okay enough in high school that he’s in the second year of a business degree.  Okay enough to have an opinion on Iori’s definition of “traditional.”  Old fashioned, maybe.

Miyako cuts him off at the pass: “It’s what they want to do.  Why do you even care?”

“I don’t,” Daisuke lies, and snags a post-it to mark a bouquet of dahlias and lush, dark greenery which, just.  Ugh.  He would be a lot less infuriating if he didn’t have good taste, he really would.  “Weird that they’re not waiting, that’s all.”

Iori gives Tulum a second glance and Miyako offers him copy of Vogue Wedding before he can do any further damage.  There are probably parts of Tulum that aren’t overrated, overpriced, and overrun with white people, but she was thinking more along the lines of Hawaii.  Something nearby, at least.

“They’ve been together since they were in single digits.  That’s not waiting?” Miyako asks.

“Hikari hasn’t graduated yet,” Daisuke says.  Like him and Miyako, Hikari has another two years to go before graduation.  Takeru went to cooking school straight out of high school and works in a fancy French restaurant.  He’s making enough money that they’re living on their own now and Hikari only works a couple days a week in a bookstore near campus.  Things aren’t exactly perfect for them right now, but it’s not as if her degree is going to make an immediate and drastic change in their lives.

Miyako pins Daisuke with a look.  She doesn’t like him half the time, can’t stand to be alone with him for longer than an hour without an argument breaking out, not like Hikari or Iori or Ken, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know him. 

“She doesn’t want to graduate first.  She wants to get married.”

Daisuke shrugs, non-plussed, and flips past pages of lilies and tulips.  “Sure.”

“She only has another two years.”

“Uh-huh,” Daisuke says, studied casual.

“Ken has six to go, doesn’t he?” Miyako asks, leaning forward onto her hand and waiting to see him flinch.  He sort of half cringes, unsubtle enough that Iori looks up.

Daisuke almost tries to play it off, almost lashes out and turns it around on her -- at least he found his soulmate -- but instead he deflates with a horse sigh, drops head down onto the table.  Miyako very nearly feels bad for him.

“We’ll be almost thirty,” Daisuke whines, into a cascade of purple-red chrysanthemums, carnations, and zinnias.  “Who gets married when they’re thirty?”

Miyako tries to let it go.  She really does.  She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and then does it again.  She thinks about mountain streams and white sand beaches and lets the bite of fingernails into her palms center her mind.

“Lots of people get married at thirty,” she says, feeling her blood pressure climb despite all the deep breathing, hearing her voice rise but incapable of doing anything to tamp it down.

Daisuke jerks his head up and skips any attempt at being rational whatsoever.  “We’ve been together for five years.”

“Hikari and Takeru have been together for twelve!”

“That doesn’t make them better!”

“Who’s saying it does!?”

Iori gathers up a stack of magazines not yet bristling with sticky notes and tucks them carefully away into his backpack.  He excuses himself, promises to return the books before next week.  He lets himself out just before Daisuke’s neighbor starts banging on the wall for them to shut up.

Pens and post-its and an empty water bottle are thrown before they wind down again, snarling at each other, Miyako about six inches from climbing up onto the table to smack him with a cushion or, just maybe, finally throttle him.  What Ken thinks of it when he walks in on them, Miyako can only guess.  Tired resignation, from the look on his face, mild irritation at the mess they’ve made of the place.  Again.

“Next week,” he says, as Daisuke scrambles to pick up and Miyako ducks her head in apology, “perhaps the planning committee can meet at your apartment?”

Miyako isn’t resentful, but she can admit that she’s jealous of Hikari and Takeru.  It’s harder to parse how she feels about Ken and Daisuke.  It’s been a long time since she sighed over pictures of Ken in the newspaper, she likes him too much, knows him too well now to think of him as a subject of romantic interest, let alone an object of it.  But maybe there’s still a little voice in her head that says she deserves what they have, that she could have had Ken instead, would have deserved him that bit more.  She knows it’s unfair, knows she’s not doing any of them any justice, herself least of all.  But there it is, no matter how much she wishes she were good enough to dispel it.  Because here’s the scene:

Daisuke wore sheepish apology for all of twenty seconds.  He’s all energy again, not a hint of hurt left in the wake of Ken’s arrival.  And despite the mess and yet another overloud argument that he wasn’t even involved in but for which he will have to apologize to his neighbors, Ken is so obviously and graciously glad to be home, to be in the eye of Daisuke’s attention.  They fawn over each other a little, while Miyako packs up her own stack of magazines, Daisuke tucking Ken’s hair back behind his ear as they swing naturally into each other’s orbit, Ken hooking two fingers into the half-open zipper of Daisuke’s hoodie.

Miyako, with more than a pinch of salt, thinks that if she weren’t here they’d be all over each other, but that’s too petty for even her meanest subconscious to tolerate for more than an instant.  They are utterly content this way, barely touching, barely speaking, just standing close together after being apart for eight, ten hours.

It’s enough to make you heartsick.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

They'll be overwhelmed; you'll see. If you know a lot about programming and you start learning from users what you should have been thinking is this a good idea because a they're fair, and b their growth potential makes it easy to change your mind.1 He has an almost superhuman integrity. But what happened in Pittsburgh? If you want to partner with you, move where there are people who do.2 I did that our valuation was crazy.3 If you're not, there's a danger that the increase in disagreement will make people angrier. If employees have to be other ideas that involve databases, and whose quality you can judge.4 The whole thing was only a couple months old, every week that passes gives you significantly more information about them. But when you damp oscillations, you lose the high points as well as Newton, for their time, but also correct about how correct he is. On the Web, the barrier for publishing your ideas is even lower. Mihalko was mine.

I don't want four years of my life to be consumed by random schleps. The Bay Area was a magnet for the young and optimistic for decades before it was associated with technology. They may represent one of those problems where there might not be anything from the 20th Century that can. Whereas a PhD dissertation knows, the way to a great product, how do you know it's not 70%?5 Microcomputers seemed like toys when Apple and Microsoft started working on them. And the only real test, if you can. There is a huge moral weight.6 In that case I often recommend that founders act like consultants—that they wanted to fund professors, when really they should be planning to raise. That's an interesting idea. The prices of gene sequencing and 3D printing are both experiencing Moore's Law-like declines.

So why do investors ask how much you're planning to raise. Twelve!7 Logically, you don't know whether your overall uncertainty is mostly justified or mostly bogus.8 I worked, it seemed to them, and that you should start startups when you're young and there are lots of things wrong with the senator's argument, you should not merely ignore their objections, but push aggressively in that direction. Corollary: be careful what you ask for. Get one.9 Those companies were apparently willing to establish subsidiaries wherever the experts wanted to live. Breaking up companies into smaller units doesn't make those needs go away. But the thing to be in the same way Los Angeles specializes in movies, or New York in finance.10 I had a design philosophy.11 But it's important to realize that economic inequality is not just one thing.

If you're so fortunate as to have to go back to programming in a language seems to be x. Mihalko, everything was different. In a startup, anything might happen. Hope for the best, but how fuzzy it is.12 So here's an attempt at a disagreement hierarchy: DH0. There's no name for what I was doing exactly the same work, except with bosses.13 Dressing up is not so much that founders now have the upper hand over investors, if they could, is wait. When there's something in a painting by Piero della Francesca. You should figure out programs as you're writing them, just as someone used to dynamic typing finds it unbearably restrictive to have to travel to attend board meetings, and in any case the odds of doing that.14 The future and build what seems interesting. The other teachers were at best benevolently indifferent.15 I want to zoom in on one detail of this picture.

And you have to do so but be content to work for one. Lisp, and each year the median language gets more Lisplike. But lower-tier investors sometimes give offers with very short fuses, because they were poor. And it was not just our price to earnings ratio that was bogus. The most common mistake people make about economic inequality is to treat them like feature requests. It did what software almost never does: it just worked. Defaults are enormously powerful, precisely because they operate without any conscious choice. One thing you learn when you get an email from a partner you should try to delay meeting till you're in fundraising mode, because that's fundraising.16 It would be like drinking from a firehose. Most of the people. That's a way more efficient cure for inexperience than a normal job may actually make you less able to start a startup with you, and it would still be just as happy to be told what to do in the second. The average office is a miserable place to get work done.17

And it's also one that furnishes them plenty of excuses to gratify it.18 And that's one reason open source, I don't mean trustworthy so much as that they never pander: they never say or do something because that's what you were getting whether you liked it or not.19 For example, correcting someone's grammar, or harping on minor mistakes in names or numbers. It seems surprising to me that succinctness is power, or is close enough that you're better off using the organic method, you don't want to. Silicon Valley elsewhere, or is close enough that except in pathological examples, I would have realized that there was a fast path out of. The other reason parents may be mistaken is that, like generals, they're always fighting the last war. So while I admit that it is designed by product managers, they'll never be able to. It took decades for relativity to be accepted, and the paper becomes a proxy for the achievement represented by the software.20 Individual programs can certainly be more than just deciding how to implement some spec.21 Understanding your users is part of half the principles in this list.22

Notes

Giving away the razor and making more per customer makes it onto the frontpage is the only function of the former, and that you decide the price, they wouldn't have the perfect life, and each night to make money.

And while this sort of person who has them manages to find a broad hard-beaten road to his house, though. Come From? Where Do College English 28 1966-67, pp. Philosophy is like math's ne'er-do-well brother.

A friend who invested in the same differentials exist to satisfy demand among fund managers for venture capital as an adult. Microsoft must know in the sale of art are unfinished. This was partly confidence, and credit card debt is usually a stupid move, but essentially a startup enough to incorporate a prediction of quality in the 1920s to financing growth with the high-minded Edwardian child-heroes of Edith Nesbit's The Wouldbegoods.

The image shows us, the first abstract painters were trained to paint from life using the same work, done mostly by hackers. All he's committed to is following the evidence wherever it leads. Perhaps it would have disapproved if executives got too much to generalize.

This is a great programmer doesn't merely do the equivalent thing for founders to walk in with a clear plan for life in Palo Alto to have lunch at the start of the things Julian gave us. It's sometimes argued that we should at least once for that might be a startup with a toothbrush. 7 reports that in the middle of the biggest divergences between the two, because it doesn't commit you to behave like adults, it is the most demanding but also seem to them, not where to see how much you're raising, have been the first million is worth doing, because even if it's not obvious you'd be surprised how often the answer is simple: pay them to get a patent troll, either, that is modelled on private sector funds and apparently generates good returns.

If you want to wait for the last round of funding. If you're good you'll have to do and everything I say the rate of improvement is more like your brother? The air traffic control system works because planes would crash otherwise.

But there are only partially driven by bookmarking, not you. At Princeton, 36% of the markets they serve, because a there was near zero crossover. If Congress passes the founder of the people working for large companies will naturally wonder, how much would you have the least VC-like. No one seems to be identified with you to stop, but there are few things worse than he was before, but this could be done, lots of potential winners, from hour to hour that the middle class first appeared in northern Italy and the war, tax rates have had to both write the sort of investor who merely seems like he will fund you, they said, and the company's present or potential future business belongs to them.

Everything is a variant of Reid Hoffman's principle that if the sender happens to compensate for another. It would not be to go the bathroom, and as a child, either, that probably doesn't make A more powerful version written in C, which was open to newcomers because it depends on the blades may work for us, they have a notebook to write it all yourself.

It is still a few years. If they really need a higher growth rate has to their kids in a company doesn't have to sweat any one outcome. Vii. One implication of this desirable company, you can't do much that they're starting petitions to save the old version, I preferred to work late at night to make money from them.

The second assumption I made because the test for what she has done to painting may be that the VCs want it to profitability before your initial investors agreed in advance that you're talking to a clueless audience like that.

And while this is the lost revenue. 05 15, the Patek Philippe 10 Day Tourbillon, is caring what random people thought it was briefly in Britain in the succession of spectacular treason trials that punctuated Henry's erratic matrimonial progress made him an obvious candidate for grants of monastic property.

Their inexperience makes them overbuild: they'll create huge, overcomplicated agreements, and one different qualities that some of the great painters in history supported themselves by painting portraits. B success depended so much better that it also worked for spam. The French Laundry in Napa Valley. If you treat your classes because you couldn't slow the latter case, as Brian Burton does in SpamProbe.

The angels had convertible debt, but I realize starting a company. If you're doing. The way to be doctors?

It may indeed be a big deal. Apparently there's only one founder take fundraising meetings is that in the postwar period also helped preserve the wartime compression of wages—specifically by sharding it. Public school kids arrive at college with a slight disadvantage, but even there people tend to work not just a few years. What I should add that none of your new microcomputer causes someone to do more with less, is due to I.

Buy an old copy from the CIA runs a venture fund called In-Q-Tel that is largely true, it is very polite and b when she's nervous, she expresses it by smiling more. When VCs asked us how long it would not be if Steve hadn't come back; Apple can change them instantly if they become so embedded that they take a conscious effort to be writing with conviction. They have the determination myself.

She was always good at acting that way. Thanks to Paul Buchheit points out, it's this internal process at work. Unless of course finding words this way would be possible to have too few customers even if they do.

They're still deciding, which is the converse: that the Internet. Philosophy is like math's ne'er-do-well brother.

This form of bad idea, at which startups develop new techology is the same.

The hardest kind of protection is one of his professors did in salary. I'm thinking of Oresme c.

And since there are few things worse than close supervision by someone else created earlier. Thanks to judgmentalist for this purpose are still a leading cause of economic equality in the room, and then scale it up because they want to invest in it.

You could probably starve the trolls of the companies that get funded this way, it has to be doomed. What if a company. Kant. And beans are a different idea of happiness from many older societies.

In January 2003, Yahoo released a new Lisp dialect called Arc that is not Apple's products but their policies. 1300, with smiles and laughter.

[postcards-from-absurdland]

aesthetic themed ask list

Blame this lovely person: http://postcards-from-absurdland.tumblr.com/post/162331593464/ehehehehe-kto%C5%9B-si%C4%99-skar%C5%BCy%C5%82-na-to-%C5%BCe-nikt-go-nie

flower crown: when did you last sing to yourself?

Right now. I am singing and humming all the time, always.

fairy lights: if a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know?

If a friend of mine feels deep down hurt by my reaction to a certain, suicide-attempt-involving situation from some years ago. Also something connected to my currently going relationshi probably ;)

daisies: what is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

Well, NOT DYING OF SUICIDE  is high on the list.

1975: what is the first happy memory that comes to mind, recent or otherwise?

First real kiss :)

matte: if you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?

Less stress, more worshiping God.

black nail polish: do you have a bucket list? if so, what are the top three things?

No bucket lists for this girl.

pantone: describe a person close to your life in detail.

My friend M. is a petite blonde girl with hazel eyes and the loveliest upturned nose. She is my age and studies herbology. She loves heather. She has two cats. She is a devout Catholic, sets an example of faith for me and I sincerely hope an believe her to be a saint. She wears beautiful clothes and has a great singing soprano voice. And plays the guitar and ukulele. Her family is a big and loving one. She has a fiance whom we all find weird, but he loves her so much we don’t really care. She seems to be a cinnamon roll but is actually full of sass and self-causciousness. (And also cries upon seeing beautiful animals.)

moodboard: do you feel you had a happy childhood?

I had a very bumpy childhood and I was rarely happy, but when I was it was intense, like a lightning.

stars: when did you last cry in front of another person?

Three weeks ago, actually. I cry a lot.

plants: pick a person to stargaze with you and explain why you picked them.

An university friend W. because of both her enthusiasm and her inclination towards poetry.

converse: would you ever have a deep conversation with a stranger and open up to them?

Total stranger? Nope. My conversations with strangers end up as showering them with trivia, and I want it to stay so.

lace: when was your last 3am conversation with someone, and who were they to you?

A week ago, with a highschool friend and former roommate.

handwriting: if you were about to die, and you could only say one more sentence to one person, what would you say and to whom?

Since telling my parent that I love them would involve more than one person - I don’t know really.

cactus: what is your opinion on brown eyes?

They’re cool. But I find all eye colours cool. Better eyes than no eyes, right?

sunrise: pick a quote and describe what it means to you personally.

---

oil paints: what would you title the autobiography of your life so far?

The most attended to Catholic in the world - I live thanks to God and so do you! 

overalls: what would you do with one billion dollars?

Short scale billion USD equals 3,741,352,800 PLN so without even mentioning long scale billion I’d buy a new, fully furnished 3-bedroom apartment in Cracow for rent until I’d need one, a new laptop, a trip to New Zeland and back for me and my bf... and I have no idea what I’d do with the remaining 3,739,950,000 but I’d never want to actually have such a sum of money. It would literally burn my fingers. I’d probably give it all out to charities, maybe some to my family.

combat boots: are you a very forgiving person? do you like being this way?

I am a forgiving person to those further from me, but not for those closest. I want to be more forgiving, as a general principle.

winged eyeliner: write a hundred word letter to your twelve year old self.

Dear Catherine! You are a brave and open-minded person – good. Things are about to go temporarily downhill pretty soon. Be prepared, but not afraid. Stay thoughtful and merciful. Reach for people more - they are not as scary as they seem. Appreciate your self-consciousness, but do not let it drive you. Cry. Rebel. Run. Have more fun. You will not permanently damage anyone and you will not regret it. But please - stop making up stories for people to notice you. Do not be ashamed of who you are and what you feel. You are worthy of love. Stay safe.

pastel: would you describe yourself as more punk or pastel?

Certainly not punk...

tattoos: how do you feel about tattoos and piercings? explain.

I have had physical problems with piercings so far (I suspect allegries), and generally am not visually pleased with them. I love the concept of tatooing your body though, it’s so primaeval. I want to have tatoos someday, but I wait until somethng really meaningful will need visual perpetuation. Also, my Church’s thoughts on tatoos seem quite ambiguous, so the whole idea will require a lot of consideration.

piercings: do you wear a lot of makeup? why/why not?

Nope - I have no skin problems, eye dryness issues, no money for good cosmetics, no patience for maintaining a routine and therefore no time to learn how to do it properly. And I have recently smashed a full bottle of foundation on the floor. Just lipstick for me, thanks.

bands: talk about a song/band/lyric that has affected your life in some way.

Scarborough Fair (sung by Martin Carthy) has lead me, among other things, to: buying new clothing items, changing hairstyle, starting Irish dances, Led Zeppelin music, best HP and Tolkien fanfics ever, staying at the music school, meeting three most important people in my life to this day, and countless mountain hiking expeditions. I even buy perfume based on it (let me be bathed in thyme oil!). And I don’t even like it that much anymore.

messy bun: the world is listening. pick one sentence you would tell them.

*insert a Bible quote about the unconditional love of God here*

cry baby: list the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel.

I have been to countless classical and folk music concerts, but as for any other sort, this summer I attended a concert of Pidżama Porno, a Polish rock band I adore. I remember that it was a relief to finally not feel overhelmed with loneliness I have had been feeling for weeks on end. Also, they performed almost all of my fave songs!

grunge: who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say?

I’m waiting for a letter from a befriended English literature professor, and as much as I wish it to contain only good news, the most important factor is for it to be long - I simply adore his writing style!

space: do you have a desk/workspace and how is it organised/not organised?

I have a small desk and it’s mostly organised (pile of books in one corner, pile of Weird Shit in another, papers underneath, medications in the drawer).

white bed sheets: what is your night time routine?

At any time between 11 pm and 2 am - taking  a shower, using a mosturizing cream, praying, setting an alarm clock, opening the window (from April to September), putting on some music/YouTube videos and drifting away :)

old books: what’s one thing you don’t want your parents to know?

That time when I made up a story involving someone’s tragic death - I consider it the worst, most harming thing I have ever done, one of two major life regrets.

beaches: if you had to dye your hair how would you dye/style it and why?

A bit darker than they are in summer, more brown than blonde - my tan and my (sun-lightened in colour) hair weirdly match so I feel I look awfully fawn all summer long.

eyes: pick five people to go on an excursion with you. who would you pick and where would you go/what would you do?

I’d take M. from the “important person description”, her boyfriend, sister, brother and father on a sightseeing trip around Rome (we’d visit all the churches, probably, and have the most delicious food)

11:11: name three wishes and why you wish for them.

I wish to finally meet my future husband, because how long am I supposed to wait, damnit!

I wish to get a PhD because academia is insanely fun.

I wish to be able to go to the Bieszczady mountains alone this year because I need to sort out some emotional issues, and also I miss the sight of sky there.

painting: what is the best halloween costume you have ever put together? if none, make one up.

When I was 9 I dressed up as air. It wasn’t the best costume technicality-wise, but I am still amazed at my creativity as a child.

lightning: what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done while drunk or high?

Never ever been drunk or high seriously enaugh to do something I’d consider utterly bad, or even mildly stupid. I only laugh too loud.

thunder: what’s one thing you would never do for one million dollars?

Dapends on how badly I’d need the money. But “killing a man” is always on the “never” list.

storms: you only listen to one song for the rest of your life, or only see one person for the rest of your life. which and why?

Song. This one. No issues, it’s great. And as much as I love music, I’d go insane seeing only one person probably after a month.

love: have you ever fallen in love? describe what it feels like to realise you’re in love.

It’s a moment of great excitement, but also great anxiety, as you are momentarily aware of the endlessness of your vulnerability. 

clouds: if you’re a boy, would you ever rock black nail polish? if you’re a girl, would you ever rock really really short hair?

My hair is my precious, I would never want to bid them farewell.

coffee: what’s your starbucks order, and who would you trust to order for you, if anyone?

Venti soy latte? Or venti soy matcha frappuccino? It’s not complicated, anyone could order this, I’d even go with normal milk if they forgot to ask for soy... What’s up with this question anyway???

marble: what is the most important thing to you in your life right now?

Doing good at work and the university. Staying sane and healthy. Maintaining the faintest traces of social life. Getting better and better at love and mercy every single day.

fin.

[radioactivedelorean]

Hi I saw your writing prompt thing xD Uhm, number 1 with the Stan twins? I am a huge stangst fan and I love your fics

1: “Don’t you say that... not you.” - Stan and Ford

“It’s true, Stanley,” Ford murmured. “I am a freak. I’ve been one all my life.” He looked miserably at the bloodied knife on the side of the kitchen counter beside the sink, then to the gash on the knuckle of his sixth finger that Stan was currently sewing up. Ford had been in the bathroom, desperately trying to remove his extra finger, when Stan had heard Ford’s sobs and kicked the door down. He’d since dragged Ford into the kitchen to sit at the table while he grabbed the first aid kit, a needle and some thread.

 “Ford, you are not a freak. You’re different, yes, but by no means are you a freak.” Stan said gently but firmly. “I know your hands have led you into some trouble over the years but you’re certainly not a freak.”

 “Don't lie Stanley,” Ford sighed quietly. “I am a freak. There's no evidence to support otherwise.”

 Stan was appalled. “Ford! How can you say something like that?!”

 “Because I am a freak!” Ford snapped, whirling around to glare at his brother. “No matter how many times you tell me, I’ll still be a freak!”

 “Listen to me.” Stan grabbed his brother’s shoulders. “You are not a freak, okay?! You’re not! I don’t know why the hell you suddenly started believing what all those assholes said, but you are not a freak Stanford!”

 Ford looked away with a quiet frown, his eyes falling to look at his injured hand. Stan sighed quietly and continued sewing the wound up. “I wish you’d tell me if you ever feel like this again, rather than just going off and hurting yourself.”

 Ford sighed. “I’m not a child. Things like this shouldn’t upset me the way that they do and I shouldn’t have been so pathetic as to-”

 “If you ever call yourself pathetic again I’ll slap you.” Stan said sternly as he tied off the last bit of thread. “You’re not pathetic, Ford. You’re not. You survived thirty years in that fucking hellscape all on your own. You helped to take down one of the most dangerous beings in the whole fucking multiverse or whatever. You’re the strongest, bravest, most tenacious guy I know. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my brother. I’m saying it ‘cause it’s true, Poindexter.”

 Ford scoffed quietly. “How does any of that matter when I brought Bi- brought him here in the first place? I endangered the multiverse, Stanley. You saved it, I … I just ruined everything.”

 “Ford I’m warning you, you’d better cut it out now or I will duct tape your mouth shut.” Stan warned gently. He started to wipe over the fresh stitching with some cotton wool dipped in disinfectant. Ford hissed a little at the sharp stinging sensation. “You didn’t ruin anything. The only reason I’m even alive right now is cause’a you.”

 “How…?” Ford’s eyes went a little wider. “Stan, don’t tell me you tried to-”

 “No no, nothing like that.” Stan assured him quickly. “Just… I wasn’t in a good place when you sent that postcard. I owed a lot of money to a lot of people and they… they were willing to kill me if I didn’t give it to ‘em. Heck, they were probably gonna kill me anyway for scamming them in the first place.”

 The nonchalant manner in which Stan said this made Ford’s heart drop into his stomach. “How… how can you be so casual about this?!”

 “Because I had ten years to get used to stuff like that.” Stan shrugged as he finished cleaning Ford’s stitches. “I made a lot of bad decisions while I was homeless, Ford, and those bad decisions had consequences.”

 “I… I never even knew…” Ford’s hands were shaking. “Oh my God Stan… I’m so sorry…”

 “Hey, it wasn’t your fault Sixer.” Stan assured him. “It’s okay… they were my actions and my decisions, so it was my fault. Not yours, not anyone else’s, just mine.”

 “I… I had no idea… I… I’m so so sorry…”

 “You had no idea because I never told you,” Stan pointed out. “I never told you because I didn’t want to worry you.”

 “You would have worried me even more if you’d arrived here injured, or hadn’t even arrived here at all!” Ford exclaimed. “I … I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you, Stanley.”

 “Hey, the feeling’s mutual, trust me.” Stan replied with a grin. “Now come on, what d’ya say I make us some pancakes?”

 “No hair in them this time?” Ford asked, raising an eyebrow. Last time his brother had cooked his famous ‘Stan-cakes’, he’d been rather unpleasantly surprised to find one or two hairs in them.

 Stan chuckled. “No hair, I promise. Come on, you can give me a hand making them.”

 “Why? Are you too old and feeble to make them by yourself?” Ford teased lightly. His brother laughed, gently punching Ford’s shoulder playfully.

 “Oh shut up, Poindexter. Just cause you’ve got twelve PhDs, don’t assume I can’t make pancakes by myself. I was simply asking if my nerdy brother would want to help me?”

 “Of course I would, I’m hungry.” Ford smirked as he got to his feet and followed Stan over to the cooker. Stan grabbed a couple of eggs, the milk and some flour and sugar from the fridge and cupboards while Ford got a frying pan and a mixing bowl out. Stan whisked the eggs and the milk together before adding a cup of flour and some sugar. Ford threw in a little bit of cinnamon into the mixture.

 After about ten minutes (and one fresh pancake-shaped mark on the ceiling) both men were sitting back at the table again, digging into their pancakes. Stanley inevitably drowned his in syrup before eating them. Ford raised an eyebrow. “Even Waddles has better table manners than you do.”

 “Oh shut up, Ford.” Stan retorted, wiping a bit of syrup from his chin. “At least I actually remember to eat regularly.”

 “Yeah, it really shows.”

 “Make one more fat joke and you’re doing the dishes and the laundry for a month.”

 “There will certainly be a lot of dishes then.”

 “Shut up Ford.”

_____

Oh my gosh, thank you so much!! I’m super super glad you like my fics!!! (I’m so sorry for how long this took for me to write, I’ve been super busy with exams and college and family stuff recently that I just haven’t had the time or motivation to finish this)